"occation" poems
I searched for meaning
In religion and philosophy.
Taking on gods and
Prophets.
Gained some wisdom, but
Ended up confused more than
Enlightened.
Lost the little firm footing
I had.
I searched in arts and music.
Interprating. Analyzing.
Enjoying and disliking.
Expressing and being
Alternative. Original.
Outside the box.
All I gained was an unhealthy
Love of wine.
Less meaning than I
Began with.
Some pretentious friends.
More confusion than ever.
So I stopped searching.
Stopped chasing.
Stood still drawing fresh,
Crisp morning air into
My lungs, then felt it travel
To my soul.
I closed my eyes and heard
Her heartbeat through her
Naked chest; her collar bone
Against my temple.
Attuned my own to hers.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.
Everyday magic.
Adventure within trivialities.
Dirt on the knees of my new
Jeans from recieving a hug from
A five-year-old.
Seeing pride in the eyes of my
Parents from a distance.
Unretainable love
And lust in the eyes of
My woman on a Tuesday afternoon.
No special occation at all.
Just here,
Now.
Us.
No need to struggle.
To search.
To run after anything.
Just relax. Observe. Appreciate.
Love. Long for, then
Enjoy.
Nothing is without reason.
There's meaning in
Everything you sense,
Everywhere you are;
You.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
I’m not a son or a grandson. I’ll say
Politely: I have not memories’ ton!
Only my soul is sad night and day
That our beloved poet is gone!
In New York he left at the dawn of years—
In January it was snowing hard.
I read his books of poetry and prose
From cover to cover for the mind.
I know even his number of phone
And his home address for writing.
But I’m afraid very much of bad form,
There’ll be no one letters reading.
His memory’ll be memorized, I believe,
So that the text in bronze runs
On home: “Never be sad, people, time treats grief,
Joseph Brodsky lived here, this memorize!”
{2020}
К 80-ЛЕТИЮ ИОСИФА БРОДСКОГО
Я не сын, не внук. Скажу учтиво:
У меня воспоминаний нет!
Только где-то на душе тоскливо,
Что ушёл любимый наш поэт!
На рассвете лет ушёл в Нью-Йорке -
Снег тогда январский сильно мёл.
Книги все его от корки к корке
Я стихов и прозы перечёл.
Знаю даже номер телефона,
Адрес дома – чтобы написать.
Но боюсь я очень моветона –
Будет письма некому читать.
Память – верю я – увековечат.
В бронзе текст на доме чтоб гласил:
«Не грустите, люди! Время лечит!
Здесь Иосиф Бродский раньше жил!»
{14.05.2020}
Translator - I. Toporov
May 18, 2020
May 18, 2020 at 9:11 AM UTC
I catch onto my own leather and let it dissipate the tears, the ltters, the outside cold, the inside warm
could it be the stickiness of germs? how they interact...
the leather is very intact, with a collar and a zipper at the front pocket
its still at the arms and then open at the collar-for my own choosing whether it be a tight or a loose collar today.
in the back there are buttons jus to pamper up if the occation- persists
with a collared shirt it suits quite well, the informal formal format of california dress makers
how should I dress for a pool party? that's always the los angeles way
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 1:55 AM UTC
My heart is filled with happiness and joy
because deep inside me lies a baby boy.
I want to give him all I can,
and raise him to be a real man
There'll be times of rocking ang nursery rhymes,
but I also know there'll be plenty of hard times.
I'll do the best to help him through,
to keep him safe, there's nothing I won't do.
I can't wait to hold him nice and tight,
and charish the occation he sleeps through the night.
I look forward 'till the days I sing your birthday song,
and to teach you right from wrong.
So I tell myself, "Be patient my dear,"
"It's not too long until he's here."
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC